


The Tiny Things Count

by MaxxR



Series: The Tiny Things [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Mild Gore, Outlast: Whistleblower, Preview for a longer fic, Variant!Waylon - Freeform, Walrider!Miles - Freeform, Walrider!Waylon, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 23:17:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxxR/pseuds/MaxxR
Summary: "The scattered viscera of Jeremy Blaire writhe weakly as Waylon shuffles past him once more. He stands swaying with fatigue in the foyer of the admin block, weighing his choices."





	The Tiny Things Count

**Author's Note:**

> This is a preview for a longer fic I'm working on that will include some of my favorite tropes from Outlast: Whistleblower cannon divergence AUs. (The final product will absolutely be Weddie, fair warning!). I'm posting this as a preview to gauge people's interest, I find I write better/faster if I know someone is looking forward to the final product. It's self indulgent, I know, but if anyone is interested in reading more a kudos at least will help keep me on track!

It’s late, but still daytime when Waylon steps outside of the asylum at last. He walks past the still glistening remains of Jeremy Blaire. The man’s blood is everywhere, tacky on the bottoms of Waylon’s bare feet. The church is still burning in the courtyard, far enough behind him that he can’t feel the heat or see the terrible light of the reaching flames, but near enough to smell it. Waylon pads numbly toward the front gate, he breaths deeply of the icy mountain air made musky with smoke. He does not enjoy it like he might have once, but the tiny things inside his body tell him that it’s good. 

The gate is broken open, the metal twisted and torn. There’s a jeep parked haphazardly by the guard station and the tiny things tell him it's broken too. As Waylon continues forward the tiny things count his steps. 100 steps– 1029 – 5150 steps; he stops at 5541 steps. Just out of reach of the Walrider hovering above the ground, still and dark against the grey sky. The Walrider turns to look at him, it’s face familiar, the sclera of it's eyes black. The tiny things inside him are glad to see it. 

_“I know you.”_ it says, lowering itself to the ground. 

_“Yes.”_

_“You know me.”_ It steps closer, stands before Waylon too close. 

_“Yes.”_ Waylon says, sure that it’s true even if he can’t remember. 

_“We can’t leave.”_

_“Why?”_

Images enter his head. The tiny things inside the Walrider showing the tiny things inside him: a barricade, men with guns, with devices that can make them hurt, greedy eyes. Murkoff wants them, wants what’s inside the asylum. Murkoff won’t kill them, but they will hurt them if they get their hands on them. 

_“We can’t stay.”_ Waylon says at last. 

_“I know.”_ Above them the sky is darkening with heavy storm clouds. Waylon’s breath puffs steady and visible in the rapidly freezing air. 

_“We can’t leave.”_

_“We can’t.”_ the Walrider confirms. 

Weylon turns and walks back to the asylum. He doesn’t want to go back, the parts of him that remember that he’s human clench and shutter with horror, the tiny things whine like children. He can’t stay outside, it’s too cold, they’ll die. 5541 steps retraced, counting backwards – 4392 steps – the Walrider doesn’t follow after him. 3147 steps – 2583 – 1639 steps – Waylon’s feet hurt, broken skin burning with filth and cold, bones and muscles aching deeply. His eyes sting; his stomach roils, nauseous with exhaustion. 

The scattered viscera of Jeremy Blaire writhe weakly as Waylon shuffles past him once more. He stands swaying with fatigue in the foyer of the admin block, weighing his choices. The admin block is utterly unsecured, a poor choice in his condition. The female ward is closest, but also too close to the recreational area and the hospital in turn ( _Meat! You’re Mine!_ ). The male ward and the prison block, both overrun with variants, are no place to let one’s guard down. 

The vocational block houses the Groom, a variant singular amongst the others. An apex predator to be avoid at all cost. If Waylon can be quick enough, quiet enough, he could take advantage of the Groom’s already fierce reputation. A remora hidden in the shadow of the shark’s belly. He just has to make sure the shark remains unaware of him. 

Plan in mind, Waylon moves forward. Out an emergency door into the courtyard: the variants there are scattered and still, captivated by the church's inferno, it’s heat almost unbearable as Waylon limps past it, his legs barely able to carry him. The tiny things keep faithful count but Waylon is too tired to listen to that now. They guide him, none the less, to another emergency exit, this one broken and leading into the vocational block. Waylon steps over the threshold, the glass stinging his feet. He listens for the Groom, his vision swimming. He looks for a vent; the tiny things guide him through the darkness, help him climb a desk, pry the grate cover off a vent opening. They help him to climb inside, to crawl deep into the claustrophobic labyrinth that snakes between the walls and under the ceiling. 

As safe as he can be Waylon falls asleep at last in the unyielding darkness, the smell of meat and fire cloying in his nose, a sinister song echoing somewhere distant. The tiny things help him not to dream.


End file.
